


The Sacrifice-Maker

by JennaCupcakes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Book Thief AU, Gen, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:22:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is narrated by Death.<br/>It’s a small story about<br/>a boy<br/>a failed father<br/>some dicks with wings<br/>a demon blood<br/>and quite a lot of sacrifices.<br/>Another thing you should know:<br/>Death will visit Dean Winchester three times before he comes for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sacrifice-Maker

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Also the idea and the stylistic way where I went with this isn’t mine, it’s borrowed from Markus Zusak’s ‘The Book Thief’. The summary is an altered version of the summary of the Book Thief. 
> 
> This oneshot has not been beta-read. I apologise.

_« First, the colours.  
Then, the humans.  
That’s usually how I see things.  
Or at least, how I try. »_  
-Markus Zusak, _The Book Thief_

It is a pity I had to visit that house in Lawrence so early.

Of all the thoughts that come to me when I think of Dean Winchester now, this is the one that is most prominent – I can still see the house, the lawn, the gnarly tree, the white clean porch, the darker door with its heavy aura and discreet protective sigils.

It is a pity I had to visit that house in Lawrence so early.

Part of my job is to look behind the arguable unfairness of what humans in their short-sightedness call life and see the things for what they really are. It is expected of me, however, to believe in that bigger picture petty little creatures – not just humans – have enforced upon what in truth is no more than the coincidental correlation of a few billion atoms. Life itself is rising and falling like the tide, never staying quite long enough to leave a lasting mark, but stubborn enough to do damage.

But that is just my opinion.

That night in Lawrence, I had other things on my mind.

A puppet on a string was being murdered by the circumstances tonight.

I have never been good at containing my utter discontentment when it comes to God’s angels or an angel’s demons, and that night I felt a swelling sadness burning like the ambers of a fire, the wind blowing with a clear intent – and it wasn’t to put that fire out.

The strings of fate that met at the house were the solid web of a spider.

The house itself smelt of stale predetermination.

I took the front entrance, paying no heed to the warding signs and sigils and protection charms. There is no delaying me, however cunning your magic is.

The television cast a pale light on the staircase that Mary Winchester would soon be stepping down for the last time, and the lights in the hallway upstairs flickered. I met Mary halfway down the hall, but she didn’t notice me. Her face was full of tired concern.

I always think it’s strange how alive a dead man walking can seem.

In the nursery I paused and waited for her to come back. Even Azazel didn’t sense me; he was too caught up in the thoughts of his own victory. I could hear his thoughts then, but I will not repeat them for you – they were sad to hear, for I knew this wasn’t the glorious night of his victory. It was the night he signed himself over to me.

Footsteps in the hallway spoke of Mary returning, and Sammy in his crib let out a small whimper.

When Azazel pushed Mary up the wall, I could smell sulphur in the air.

In my mind, the moment afterwards is always endless – Mary, not quite dead and not quite alive and very much scared, Azazel gone, and poor Sam sleeping clueless in his crib.

Of course, when I say poor, I mean to say _lucky_. We all know what remembering has brought that cursed boy.

John Winchester’s climb up the stairs was like Orpheus’ journey out of Hades, only that John could not look ahead. Ahead lay what would tear his family apart.

The moment of realization when he saw his wife, his Mary on the ceiling, is another one of those endless moments. I sometimes wonder if, for a brief moment, he saw fate’s golden strings and knew this couldn’t have been altered, but then I remember he was only human.

Humans have a peculiar gift for overlooking inevitability.

Still, he had the common sense to grab Sam from his crib and turn around, where his firstborn was standing with tired eyes and a pyjama that was slightly askew. He looked so very small when I first saw him.

But he never cried. I always respected him for that.

I suppose Dean must have seen me over his father’s shoulders, because even when John dropped the sleeping Sam in his brother’s arms and shouted at him to take the baby outside, he remained frozen in place for a split second, and there was more than shock in his eyes.

I think maybe it was his moment of realization – the epiphany every human has at least once in his life – that he was one day going to die. That, I remember was the first time I could begin to understand what it meant to be human – with that boy’s silent plea of _don’t take my mother from me_.

It was sad because I already knew of all the other deaths Dean would have to endure. But I couldn’t take that from him. That wasn’t my place.

Dean turned and ran, just when fire erupted on the ceiling, engulfing Mary Winchester in a final embrace. I took her, and she didn’t question me, she didn’t fight me – all I could feel was regret, because she would never get to watch her children grow up.

I left Dean his father. Today wasn’t the stubborn Winchester’s day.

—Ψ—

The second time around, I encountered Dean Winchester in a hospital.

To me, those places are sterile and sad, and I try to avoid them as far as possible, for fear of being reminded of one of my brothers. Tessa was there that day, but she let me know that the Winchesters were there.

I hurried, then, hiding in the shadows of the building, always just out of sight.

My heavy heart found a desperate boy and a broken father.

Between them – the ghost of Dean Winchester.

Quite literally.

Again, I marvelled at the precision angels and demons applied to their schemes, leaving no puzzle piece behind – between them, they had already decided that John Winchester was to be discarded, sent to hell, no longer of any use. They would have him break the first seal – that was the plan, anyway.

But Dean Winchester was to be saved.

I met Azazel again that day, and again it was him who cut short the strings of a life that could have been so different, so much longer. It is a tragedy that I sometimes tend to see the potential of humans instead of their achievements. Their resourcefulness keeps me from overlooking their stupid little lives. Nothing is ever completely insignificant.

John Winchester met me with the eyes of an old soldier and the weary heart of a failed father. Dean never saw him die, or else he would have recognized me, I’m sure. I passed his room just after he had woken up, a demon deal tainting and saving his life. His father was walking beside me. I heard Dean Winchesters heartbeat.

The sky was the bleeding colour of cracking armour.

John Winchester smiled.

– his thoughts that moment –   
_It was worth it._

That was the second time I met Dean Winchester, but I could feel our next encounter wouldn’t be far away.

—Ψ—

It’s funny to think that I could come to enjoy the story of one who has endured so many losses because of me, but maybe that’s what makes the really great stories. Maybe humans need suffering in order to show what they are made of. After all, they weren’t given a purpose in life like I was.

And moreover, I’m not what cursed his family.

They say God doesn’t play dice – he doesn’t, I know for a fact – but that doesn’t mean there’s a point to all this suffering. That’s just all those beings he created tearing each other apart in order to fulfil what they believe to be his will.

But I don’t mean to tell you about wars and petty feuds. I’m here because of Dean Winchester.

There was mud under my feet the third time. The sky was dark and grave and cursed. The rotten stench of decay hung in the air, mixed with sulphur and the laughter of a demon who didn’t have long to live.

Sam Winchester was on his knees, and so was Dean.

In all my years, I could never figure out the concept of hope that humans cling to. I could see hope on Dean’s face that day.

He was holding Sammy – poor, innocent, baby Sammy, that was how he still saw him – in his arms as if Sam might fall apart if he let go. He was holding on tightly, but my pace was quicker.

“That’s my job, huh?” I could hear him whisper, “Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?”

His voice was tear-stained and frightened.

Sam let go all too easily.

“Sammy?”

Dean opened his eyes and looked ahead, and that was when he saw me, and all hope left his face. “Sam!” he called. It was no good. He knew that. We stared at each other for a few seconds, recognizing each other like old friends.

Then, I left. I left the boy who had lost everything, his baby brother’s body in his arms. I knew I hadn’t left him for good.

—Ψ—

I met Dean Winchester one last time, but I do not like to talk about this day. The stench of sulphur hung heavy in the air again. The sky was pitch-black, the colour of demon eyes.

Hellhounds, you see, are despicable creatures, and definitely not my favourites. They leave the souls terrified and hurt, and I have a hard time carrying them away. Most of them are still screaming and kicking when I take them, knowing quite well what was in store for them.

This wasn’t the case with Dean Winchester.

His screams echoed in the small room one minute, and the next he fell silent, his soul standing up and regarding me with knowing eyes. He was quiet all that time, even though I felt a certain amount of fear.

Well, he was entitled to that.

But he wasn’t afraid of me.

We walked in silence for the time being – a calm before the storm for Dean Winchester, who knew what was awaiting him as well, maybe better than anyone else. He knew about the torture and the making of demons, and he feared what he might become. His contentment simply came from the knowledge of having saved his brother.

I admired that.

I rarely ever feel pity for humans, but I felt a grief like none I had ever know before for Dean Winchester. His soul seemed to smile at me though, and I realised that he believed to have lead a full life, be it perfect or not.

Well, he couldn’t know what other plans the heavens held in store for him.

—Ψ—

**_Epilogue: High Noon in Chicago_ **

_The world has fallen silent in Chicago._

_The fates are holding their breath._

_In a small restaurant, there are two men sitting in front of each other: one of them is older than life itself, and the other one doesn’t know his place._

_They are old friends who meet at last._

_The man older than life is eating pizza with a quiet ease, each movement precise and calculated. The other one is full of boiling emotions._

_People say that sometimes the entire fate of a man, a country, or the human race, depends on a chance meeting – but this isn’t chance. It’s not destiny, either._

_A long time ago, a young boy looked into the face of Death and understood._

_The miracle about it: a long time ago, Death looked into the face of a young boy and understood, too._

_And he never stopped looking._

**Author's Note:**

> So instead of the much needed studying for my finals this happened. Let me know what you think, and please point out mistakes if you do find them. Thank you for reading.


End file.
